had my heart set upon for years--that grand project of
ambition for my daughter--gone to the winds, and she must put up with
some rascally commoner, after all."

"It is certainly possible, sir; and, besides, every one knows that Lord
Dunroe is needy, and wants money at present very much."

"In any event, Corbet, it is our best policy to keep this discovery
a profound secret till after the marriage, when it can't affect Miss
Gourlay, or Lady Dunroe as she will then be."

"Indeed, I agree with you, Sir Thomas; but, in the meantime, you had
better see your son; he is impatient to come to you and his sister. It
was only last night that the secret of his birth was made known to him."

"By what name does he go?"

"By the name of Ambrose Gray, sir; but I cannot tell you why my sister
gave him such a name, nor where she got it. She was at the time very
unsettled. Of late her reason has returned to her very much, thank God,
although she has still touches of her unfortunate complaint; but they
are slight, and are getting more so every time they come. I trust she
will soon be quite well."

The baronet fixed his eye upon the speaker with peculiar steadiness.

"Corbet," said he, "you know you have lost a great deal of my confidence
of late. The knowledge of certain transactions which reached that
strange fellow who stopped in the Mitre, you were never able to account
for."

"And never will, sir, I fear; I can make nothing of that."

"It must be between you and your father, then; and if I thought so--"

He paused, however, but feared to proceed with anything in the shape of
a threat, feeling that, so far as the fate of poor Fenton was concerned,
he still lay at their mercy.

"It may have been my father, Sir Thomas, and I am inclined to think it
must, too, as there was no one else could. Our best plan, however, is to
keep quiet and not provoke him. A very short time will put us out of his
power. Fenton's account with this world is nearly settled."

"I wish, with all my heart, it was closed," observed the other; "it's a
dreadful thing to feel that you are liable to every accident, and never
beyond the reach of exposure. To me such a thing would be death."

"You need entertain no apprehension, Sir Thomas. The young man is safe,
at last; he will never come to light, you may rest assured. But about
your son--will you not see him?"

"Certainly; order the carriage, and fetch; him--quietly and as secretly
as you can, observe